


Alles was ist, endet

by myystic (neoinean)



Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Cunnilingus, F/M, Library Sex, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-20
Updated: 2011-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-27 14:25:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/296804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neoinean/pseuds/myystic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Graduation is tomorrow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alles was ist, endet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lanyon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanyon/gifts).



> Beta'ed by the wonderful iBear. All remaining mistakes are entirely my own.

Today is June third, 1998, and Harvey Specter is enjoying his last night as a student of Harvard Law. Tomorrow is commencement: an entire morning devoted to the art of hurry up and wait, and then it’s a short walk in a silly hat exchanged for a smile and a handshake and a placeholder for another $250,000 piece of paper (second one he’s earned; second one he hasn’t had to pay for) that will still cost an extra $75 to frame, and if he’s really lucky Jessica will show for the annual fellating of the alumni and then he’ll actually have someone there who maybe personally just might give enough of a shit to celebrate the achievement with him.

Maybe.

But that’s tomorrow.

Right now Pomp And Circumstance is still roughly nine hours away, which means it’s thirteen, give or take, before the Dean hands him a receipt certifying that he’s met all the academic requirements and that there’s no outstanding bills, overdue library books, or unpaid campus parking tickets standing between him and his J.D. Tangible proof that he’s crossed the finish line. Only not quite, because in reality the J.D. is just another mile marker. Passing the Bar is what really breaks the tape, what finally puts paid to his education and seals the deal for his career as a practicing lawyer.

The Bar, which isn’t for another seven weeks. And then it’s five to seven business days after that before the results are posted. Eight weeks, then, give or take, before he finds out whether or not he wasted--

Well. The John P. Hardman memorial scholarship, for one. And all the strings attached to it. Strings that Jessica pulled in order to get him here.

Not that he’s worried or anything. He’s always tested well, and by all accounts the Bar is high on intimidation, but -- for those who actually paid attention in law school -- low on any serious difficulty. So no, he’s not worried. He paid attention, did well, and has the GPA to prove it, so really he has nothing to worry about. Nothing at all. He’s just... not looking forward to the wait. Yeah.

(No.)

But then, who is? Seriously. It’s nine hours until he graduates, but then nine _weeks_ before his first day at his first real non-interning job. Nine weeks. You ask him, they really should schedule the Bar a bit closer to graduation, spare everyone the anxiety of sitting in limbo.

Not that _Harvey_ will be sitting in limbo, oh no. Just because he managed to skate through on the barest minimum of student loans (the scholarship covered tuition, books, and the other various and sundry University fees, but he was on his own for things like rent and food and basic living expenses) that hardly means he can afford to take the next two full months off, and even if he did have that kind of cash to spare Jessica would absolutely _skin him_ if he tried. He’s got an interim job lined up at the Cambridge District Court in the office of the public defender, and so what if it’s little better than an internship in terms of scope, responsibility, and pay grade? It’s a job. And it’s _local_ , which is important.

It’s also the perfect proving ground for his upcoming indenture with the District Attorney for Southern New York, which is why Jessica has decided not to mind that’s he’s not ready to up and move back home just yet. She knows his reasons, and she’s got too much class to disapprove of them now, after all this time, just because they’ve suddenly become an inconvenience to her Grand Plans for Harvey Specter. Christ knows how often it’s been inconvenient for _his own_ Grand Plans for Harvey Specter, but he’s made it this far, hasn’t he? He can make it a while longer.

Nine weeks longer, to be precise. Hopefully he won’t even need the half of them. He’d like to have just a _little bit_ of time for himself, between the end of school and the actual start of his adult life, if it’s not too much to ask.

(It probably is. Precedent is not on his side.)

So -- nine weeks.

(Nine long, interminable weeks paved with a thankless long-hours scut-work job of almost-but-not-quite-real-lawyering, broken up with private Bar review and the accompanying spikes of test anxiety and the odd visit by the ghost of Christmas future, the one that will tease him with glimpses of his own practice, real and visceral and _not yet his_ , not until he’s passed the Bar. But he can’t think of it like that.)

Seven until the exam; eight until he knows his fate; nine until it matters.

Nine weeks.

Talk about cruel and unusual.

But, this is the night before commencement; the last night of Senior Week; the last hurrah of students everywhere before the world shoves adulthood down their throats and makes them own it. Tomorrow Harvey will graduate fifth in his class before God, the Dean, and Jessica, and those nine weeks might loom large on the horizon but right now Harvey is so flushed with his own success that he simply _doesn’t care_.

Today is June third, 1998. It’s 10:47 p.m. and Harvey Specter is on top of the world.

  
**§**   


  
Actually, Harvey Specter is down on his knees in the middle of a semi-private study nook on the third floor of the law library, but the point is sustained because he’s got Dana Scott splayed flat on her back on top of one of the rickety oblong tables: knees hooked over his shoulders, head canted to one side, mouth ringed in a perfect little bright pink painted _o_ while her fingers twist and gnarl all through his hair as he eats _the hell_ out of her pussy.

It’s technically illegal. It’s definitely in violation Harvard’s code of student conduct. And it’s absolutely a very bad idea.

It’s also the sixth time they’ve done it.

It started back in 2L, somewhere around fall midterms, and though he can’t speak for Scotty, Harvey himself would swear it happened almost entirely by accident. They’d been arguing -- when were they not? -- and then suddenly--

They weren’t.

Or, well, they _were_ , just with a few short recesses called to facilitate orgasms. And afterwards they picked up almost exactly where they left off: “ _have you seen my bra?_ ” and “ _I think my wallet fell out of my pocket_ , ” and “ _are you deliberately misinterpreting Adarand v. Peña, or are you just stupid?_ ” And that sort of set the tone from there on out. Apparently for them, arguing equals foreplay. (And foreplay is just another form of argument, and sex is just the winner’s victory lap.) But precedent is precedent, and even would-be lawyers aren’t immune to craving the comforts of routine.

Or orgasms.

This time it started at Pinocchio’s, a last night of togetherness and beloved tradition before they all pick up stakes and head for greener pastures. Pizza and hot-wings and beer and enough 3Ls jammed into booths to violate the fire code, and then Scotty just had to slap a printout of the student rankings down onto the table like some crinkled paper gauntlet.

“ _See -- here it is in writing. I’m officially better than you._ ”  
“ _Oh are you now._ ”  
“ _Numbers don’t lie, Specter._ ”  
“ _They don’t have to when they’re irrelevant, Scotty._ ”  
“ _You can’t dismiss the facts just because they don’t support your case._ ”  
“ _Now where have I heard that before? Ah yes. Moot court._ My _closing argument._ ”  
“ _I kicked your ass in moot court!_ ”  
“ _Which proves my point. Your argument is invalid. Do not pass go, do not--_ ”  
“ _\--think for one moment that anything you say will invalidate my higher GPA. Suck it, Specter._ ”  
“ _You first, Scotty. You first._ ”

Was how it went. Somewhere between the feasting and the merry-making and the arguing like it’s their last chance ever to get their point across (which -- hey -- it very well might be; commencement and all) they realized that it’s also quite possibly their very last chance for clandestine library sex, and that had been that. An innuendo-laden argument became multiple acts of public indecency. Again.

It’s disturbingly Pavlovian.

And really a lot more Scotty’s thing than his, truth be told, but then her exhibition kink is really kind of obvious to anyone who dares to look and so far indulging Scotty’s kinks has rewarded Harvey with some of the best sex he’s ever had.

Not that he’s had much else in the way of comparison, but what his bedpost lacks in notches he’s more than made up for in sheer thoroughness. And Scotty’s never complained, though Harvey’s fairly certain that’s because none of the _other_ self-centered assholes she’s slept with (what can he say? She has a type) are any good in bed.

Or libraries, though Harvey’s _also_ certain that he’s the only one she’s ever fucked in here, because there’s an art to getting into a woman’s pants, like there’s an art to everything worth doing, and location is nine tenths of the law. For Scotty it’s the knife’s edge: the teetering balance between the thrill of exposure and the threat of getting caught, and the deeper, stronger need for familiarity; for _safety_ ; for the feel of home-court advantage.

That’s why they’re currently occupying the same study nook that Harvey’s all but _lived in_ , this past year especially. He knows the worn patches in the cheap commercial-grade carpet like he knows the back of his hand (better than; who studies the backs of their hands? Seriously?) and by now his fingers have picked out no less than seven different harmonies inside the staccato flickering of the single sickly fluorescent light. Lately he’s given in to unconsciously tapping them out as he works: pen to notebook, thumb to side of the table, fingertips to the delicate flesh of Scotty’s inner thigh.

Oh, Scotty’s thighs. He could wax poetic.

And so he does: “ _I have no life but this, To lead it here; Nor any death, but lest Dispelled from there; Nor tie to earths to come, Nor action new, Except through this extent, The Realm of You!_ ” The words all falling soft and silent; just breath and tongue and lips and the soft _tap-tapping_ of his fingertips, that quirky little jazz sequence he invented last term while he was daydreaming of an escape from Securities Regulation.

(Oh, God, _Securities Regulation_. He’s got Scotty bent over a fucking _table_ (the _fucking_ table; _their_ fucking table) in his favorite corner of the library, and right now she’s shivering and writhing to Dickenson and _unnamed light fixture duet #4_ \-- and _that’s_ where his mind wanders? Sweet motherfucking _Christ_ , what is _wrong_ with him?)

Harvey scowls, half for the world’s most boring law class and half because he’s disappointed in himself for even _thinking_ of the worlds most boring law class -- or any law class, period and end-of -- in the middle of the worlds most exciting extra-curricular activity--

(Gotta be the beer. How much did he have, again?)

\--and Scotty’s _gasps_ , sudden and sharp, at the way his lips curl up with it. The blunted tips of her acrylic nails rake over his scalp as she clutches at his hair, struggling for purchase. It hurts, but only enough to be annoying.

(Damn fakes. They’re only ever good at imitating pretty, and if he’s honest with himself Scotty doesn’t need the help. Or the inability to use her fingers -- how practical is that? He wonders why the hell she even bothered.)

Annoyance drops his scowl into an outright sneer. His tongue, naturally, flicks right across his lips with the gesture, and Scotty wriggles, trying to follow it.

(And if he’s even more honest -- why not? The best place to bury the truth is right below the facts -- when it comes to women (to sex; to his own haphazard life), Harvey hates fake _everything_. Which is likely why he gets on ( _gets it on_ ) so well with Scotty: all her fake is painted on, and he loves all the little ways he’s found to strip her down, to undermine the armor and peel away the masks until he uncovers the person underneath, the one so tied up in daddy’s wealth and mommy’s expectations that she doesn’t even know she hiding.)

( _How many licks does it take to get to the center of a--_ )

So -- annoyance. Not really conducive to eating someone out. It’s distracting, and if he’s distracted then he’s not giving Scotty’s pleasure his full attention. That’s not good. In this, as in all things, Harvey prides himself a gentleman. He has Standards, and annoyed and distracted (and annoyed at his distraction) he’s not living up to them. Thankfully Scotty’s own standards are so obviously lower, because otherwise she would have noticed by now. And she still might, so Harvey pulls himself back onto the point.

It doesn’t take much effort.

Harvey tucks his lips into a grin, because Scotty claims she can tell when he smiles into her and likes the feel of it, and even if the ability to suck it up and grin down the Devil has been his for as long as he can remember, he still conjures up the fantasy of sucking one of those long, be-fake-jeweled fingers into his mouth and applying just enough teeth to ruin the finish on them, maybe pop the sequin free. It’s even odds that Scotty wouldn’t even notice until well after the fact (she has a thing for men with oral fixations; Harvey doesn't have one, but he _does_ have a thing for Scotty and a rather appalling willingness just to _go with it_ for the sake of getting laid) and by then it’ll be too late.

It’s a good fantasy, and it pulls the grin up wide and honest for the thought of it. Scotty feels the low, slow slide (of course she does) and in response she fists her fingers in his hair, and _pulls_.

Harvey winces, startled, and feels Scotty’s legs twitch in counterpoint as he sinks deeper into her tight, wet folds. His tongue darts out, because he’s right there and he _can’t not_ , and Scotty goes sub-vocal: deep panting breaths that punch and tumble up the scale until finally they surface, G3 and audible.

And -- _oh_! Harvey loves the sounds that Scotty makes, loves them even more when he knows she’s fighting tooth and claw to keep from being heard. It’s heady, knowing that every last note and tone he wrings from her is given up against her will; knowing that she trusts him enough to give into surrender once she’s lost control.

(Sex -- like everything else between them -- is just another arena, another avenue for competition. For them, cunnilingus isn’t about making Scotty come (well, it _is_ ; but the pleasures of sex always takes second chair to the baser pleasure of _winning_ ); it’s about making Scotty _vocal_.)

Smug, he goes for broke; goes for Elliot (editorialized, because -- fuck, why not?) -- “ _This is the way the world ends, sweetheart_ ” -- and listens as Scotty falls apart against the rounding of all those _w_ ’s.

“ _Fuck you_ ,” she fairly _snarls_ at him when he finally pulls back enough for air, and while there are half a dozen quips he could rejoin with he knows better than to say any of them aloud. Unlike some others he could name, Harvey is always gracious in his victory.

Well, almost.

“ _Alles was ist, endet_ ,” he murmurs, kissing the words into the soft crease between vulva and thigh, because seeing Scotty like this, strung out wet and wrecked and wanting, is like a glimpse of the divine, and hearing her concede defeat in that raw and stinging contralto sends a jolt of pure need straight through his spine and down into his dick (he maybe has a _thing_ for contraltos, just like he has a thing for women who can and will kick his _well-toned ass_ the minute he tries to sit back and rest upon it). And what’s the fun in paying homage if your reverence isn’t just the slightest bit irreverent?

Scotty just growls, low in her throat, because the game is up and now she’s getting impatient for its end. Harvey takes the hint -- Standards, after all -- and redirects the whole of his attention back where it belongs. He starts off slow, sets an easy and unhurried pace, and keeps his hands still at her sides: palms flat and fingers splayed, just enough pressure to be grounding, a counterpoint to the featherlight swish and flick of his tongue as it graces all her sweet spots.

Scotty _pants_ , harsh and heavy, words pared down to a throaty string of abandoned vowels, and while he’d never call her a screamer, not by any means, those ringing low notes carry, too, and Harvey knows they strike the exact right note of _danger_ that Scotty craves almost as much as the sex itself. But still, kink service or not, this is in all likelihood the last night they’ll ever spend in this room, together or otherwise ( _together_ or otherwise) and he’d rather it not be cut short by a visit from campus security.

“Hey -- put a sock in it, will ya? You wanna get us caught?”

“Bite me, Specter.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

Because banter comes naturally as breathing (comes more naturally than _coming_ , sometimes -- and the fact that their turn-ons might be just the _teensiest_ bit unhealthy doesn’t mean they aren’t acknowledged, or taken full advantage of), Harvey’s tongue is able to pick up exactly where it left off, and this time he waits just long enough for Scotty to get comfortable -- for her hips to start subtly rocking up in step with him -- before he changes the rhythm on her again. This time he brushes both hands lightly across her thighs, fingers his way through _Duende Of Ball-point By Fluorescent (working title)_ in the soft peach fuzz that swirls low on her belly, feels her quiver as he presses _rojeo_ into the sharp jut of her hip.

When he swaps the Wagner for Byron (“ _She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes_ ”) Scotty bites down hard on the sleeve of his discarded jacket and calls him all fifty-seven kinds of bastard until finally her head drops back and she comes hard along a throttled cry, a pair of broken syllables in augmented seventh that just might have been his name.

After, Harvey pulls back; gentles her through the aftershocks. He presses delicate kisses into her thigh; runs a steadying hand up over her hip and across the flat of her stomach; feels as her breathing slowly starts to even out below his palm.

When Scotty finally sighs, loud and gusty, Harvey takes that as his cue. He hauls himself up, pitches his ass down into the long-discarded chair (Scotty likes him on his knees; Harvey doesn’t argue the point unless he wants to forgo sex in favor of arguing second-wave feminism), and peers at her over the rumpled lines and swishy planes of her not-quite-formal late-spring dress, bunched up above her navel. He can feel his lips still glistening as he asks:

“All right, princess?”

The concern is genuine even if the tone belies the fact. Scotty expects it from him, though. Hand still at her side, Harvey feels it when the last of her muscles unclench at the return of the _status quo_.

For them, going off script would be like using (their incredibly fucked up version of) a safe word.

“No,” she huffs, but Harvey can see her face. She’s pouting; playful. This is just another round in their unending _whatever_. “I’m really going to miss this library.”

“I’m not,” he counters, blithely.

Scotty blinks at him, but before the storm can finish gathering in her eyes he adds:

“The lighting’s shit, the chairs are murder, and I’m pretty sure they stopped paying for heat after the blizzard of 78.” That scores a point. He knows because instead of answering she stretches out, and kicks him.

“Ow? What was that for?”

“For being a jackass.”

“Why? I’m really not going to miss this library.”

“You know what I meant.”

“Do I?”

“Oh, just get _up here_ , Specter. Before I change my mind.”

Harvey grins--

(“Jackass.”)

\--because a riled Scotty is about a million times hotter than the milder, blissed-out version, and climbs up onto the table, tugging his belt loose as he goes.

  
-FIN-

**Author's Note:**

> References and Credits (truncated when necessary):
> 
> 1\. "I have no life but this--" ~ poem by Emily Dickenson.  
> 2\. "This is the way the world ends" ~ excerpt from the final stanza of _The Hollow Men_ by T.S. Elliot.  
>  3\. "Alles was ist, endet" ~ except from Richard Wagner's _Das Rheingold_ : scene 4, Erda's warning. Trans: "everything that is, ends."  
> 4\. "She walks in beauty" ~ opening lines of _She Walks in Beauty_ by George Gordon, Lord Byron.


End file.
